


i don't look like a ghost (but i'll haunt you like one)

by writeforyou



Category: The Maze Runner (2014), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Silent Hill Fusion, Blood and Gore, Canonical Character Death, F/F, M/M, Major Character Injury, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-01-22
Packaged: 2018-03-07 17:13:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeforyou/pseuds/writeforyou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“What’s Silent Hill?”<br/>“Used to be a holiday resort I think,” Chuck supplied.<br/>“What is it now?”<br/>“Not a holiday resort.”</p>
<p>~*~<br/>Silent Hill AU.</p>
<p>Everyone has secrets. Everyone has darkness. Silent Hill makes sure that you don't forget it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> written because shepherd is an enabler
> 
> asher made a damn awesome graphic for me for this au, so you should go [check it out!](http://popunkscott.tumblr.com/post/108132048941/the-maze-runner-silent-hill-for-jeffvrson)
> 
> **no strong warnings** for this chapter, but that will change in the following ones.

 

And then Thomas was running.

It was as if he had been slammed back into himself. A weightless nothingness that had suddenly become cold gripping fear that left him a little breathless. His chest tightened and he gasped desperately for breath. His feet hit the tarmac hard and heavy, sent a jolt of pain through his fatiguing body. It made him falter just for a second, before he collected himself and sped up.

_Why am I running?_ he wondered and his mind supplied one word.

_Monster._

He didn’t turn around to check, didn’t need to because now that he thought about it, he could feel the presence there. Something snapping at his heels, spuring him on faster. He skidded around the curve in the road, and felt something brush against the back of his foot. It made his throat close up and he felt fear like he had never imagined before. Incapacitating fear. The kind that made you freeze, that clawed into your skin and shredded until there was nothing. It should have made him stop. It only spurred him forward.

Thomas didn’t have a destination, tried to pinpoint an escape in the space around him. The fog was thick, a heavy grey blanket that meant he could barely see the outline of the road in front of him. Each turn was made at the last moment, every sign read in a blur as he past, because he couldn’t afford to stop. A ranch, he noticed to one side, just a stretch of grass. On the other, nothing, the edge of a cliffside. He thought about if he had turned too sharply and fell over the edge, wondered what would greet him below. His stomach dropped in his stomach uncomfortably, a taste of what was to come.

It made sense to turn into the fields. The fences were just a little too tall, and Thomas grunted when he pulled himself over. Wire bit into his hand, the wounds stinging, but he ignored them. Just as he ignored the aching of his muscles, and the sweat that made his shirt stick uncomfortably to his skin.

The presence behind him grew, bubbling and spitting aggression, and Thomas wanted to laugh because it was angry he was getting away. Getting away. He didn’t stop though, didn’t want to stop moving incase. There was still a chance, he warned himself, and worked his arms faster to make more distance.

When the presence fell away, lost somewhere far behind him, he thought he’d feel safer, but no. He passed a cottage house, a barn, tractors, and closed off pens. He would have thought that the signs of civilisation would have comforted him, even just a little. But as he stumbled closer, he noticed the doors that had fallen off their hinges, or the smashed glass, and the toys that were crushed under his feet, and Thomas realised, no, not civilisation. Abandonment.

He stopped because he had to. Because he stumbled and tripped and landed face first into the grass. His body whined unhappily at the rough treatment, and Thomas groaned out a pain filled sob. He had to lie there for a minute, his limbs unresponsive to his minds urgings, and when he finally pushed himself up, everything complained.

He shuffled because his legs refused to lift, slid his shoes around rocks in the ground. His chest hurt everytime he breathed, so he tried to keep it shallow. His hands shook at his hips and he gripped the edge of his shirt just to give them something to do. In front of him, he could see nothing but grey. Behind him the same, but he knew back there was something that he didn’t want to face. So forward, he decided, and moved with determination.

The fog seemed to encircle and surround him. It felt tangible, almost as if he could reach out and grasp it in his hands. He felt the urge to try it, but resisted, if barely. Walking against it, the fog battered his cheeks and slipped beneath the baggy corners of his shirt. It chilled him, made Thomas arch his shoulders upward defensively, as if that could stop the invasion. It didn’t.

He saw the distant curves, just barely. Just one at first, a rock that was reaching up to the sky from its place in the ground. But the closer he got, the more appeared, the first becoming more distinctly round at the edges whilst the others began to become clearly than blurs. Realisation hit, and made Thomas start. Graves.

No wonder the world seemed so still here. No wonder it seemed as if life was barren here. A place for only the dead to inhabit. A place that the living could only visit, a place they didn’t belong. Except everything had felt like death, he just hadn’t realised until now.

Thomas took bigger strides, just wanted to get out of there as fast as possible. The idea of lingering in this place, in this greyness, even for a moment longer than he had to, was not something that he wanted to do. He had never been a fan of cemeteries. Had actually been scared of them when he was younger, had to hold on to his parents hand and press his face into their knee. If you can’t see them, they can’t see you.

“That way, they can’t hurt you.”

Thomas tried to remember who had said that to him. The voice, female, a soft lit and he could see a smile, a stretch of pink lips and pale cheeks. Nothing else. He strained and his head pounded. Wincing, he reached up to rub the center of his forehead, an attempt to relieve that pressure there. It was useless- the low thumping remained- but Thomas’ next step revealed something else in the fog. At first, Thomas thought it was another gravestone, just a little too close to the other, but another few steps, and he could tell it was something living, shuffling around. For a second, fear tightened his hold around his heart and he thought, monster?

There was a sneeze, something distinctly human, loud in the heaviness of the air around them. Thomas wanted to breathe in relief but he couldn’t let his guard down yet.

He took a hesitant step towards the figure. “Um, hello?”

The shadow shot up quickly. “Holy - you scared the klunk out of me.”

It was boy, Thomas realised. A kid. Probably only a couple of years younger than him at the most. His clothes were dirtied, and his curly hair was matted, and he stared up at Thomas with a disapproving expression. He wondered what a kid was doing out here. It wasn’t safe. He told him so.

The kid waved away the concerns. “I’m looking for my parents.”

“Are they dead?” Thomas wondered aloud, eyes darting to the gravestones and back again.

He received a strange look in return. “No.”

“Oh.” Thomas wasn’t entirely sure what to say. He shifted from foot to foot. They wanted to keep moving, to just get out of his fog, was fighting against his need for company, and left him feeling tense.

The kid frowned at him. “Just who are you anyways?”

He gave his name.

“I’m Chuck,” he waved and even tried a smile. That was nice. It made Thomas smile back.

“Do you know where we are?”

“Oh, we’re in Silent Hill,” Chuck informed him carelessly.

The name itched at the back of his mind, a familiarity that he couldn’t quite grasp and it was frustrating. “What’s Silent Hill?”

“Used to be a holiday resort I think,” Chuck supplied.

“What is it now?”

“Not a holiday resort.”

“Right.” Thomas wanted to ask for more clarification, but something told him that he didn’t actually want to know. “Do you happen to know the way into town?”

Chuck hummed. “It’s that way,” he gestured to his right. “There’s just one road in and out of town. You can’t miss it.”

Thomas murmured his thanks, made to leave but was stopped by Chuck letting out an aborted noise. The kid looked uncertain, unhappily so, maybe a little scared. “I wouldn’t...there’s something about Silent Hill. I don’t think...you should turn back.”

Thomas thought about before, the running and the unknown chasing him, and shivered fearfully. “No,” he said forcefully. He didn’t explain why. It would sound crazy.

The kid looked troubled. “You shouldn’t travel around by yourself. It’s not safe.”

“Why isn’t it safe?”

Chuck didn’t explain, just stepped around the gravestone to reach Thomas’ side. “I’ll come with you.”

“I thought you were looking for your parents,” Thomas wondered, glanced around him in a fruitless attempt to maybe see them in the fog.

Chuck did the same. “They were here. They must have gone away again.” He sounded worried.

If asked, Thomas would say it was that which made him agree. Chuck was young, too young to be left alone, and without his parents there, someone should watch out for him. Why couldn’t it be Thomas? He, after all, was experienced in taking care of his siblings.

The thought made his head hurt even worse, so he decided to forget about it for now, choosing instead to smile in what he hoped was a comforting way. “Maybe they went into town looking for you?”

Chuck brightened. “Yeah, maybe.”

He held onto Thomas’ wrist, and guided. Chuck didn’t seem as hindered by the fog as Thomas was. His steps were sure footed and confident, nothing hesitant in his movements. It was almost as if the fog wasn’t there for him. But that was impossible. Thomas blinked into the grey. There was no way that anyone could miss this.

He thought to inquire about the fog, whether it was always like this here.

He didn’t.

 

*

 

The gates to the town were rusted. Thomas thought that perhaps once they had been painted green, and he could imagine that the elegant curve of the metal gave the small vacation town some grandeur. Now, there weren’t even doors, just the frame, slightly wonky remained in place. Beside it, the faded sign was but a shadow of what would have no doubt been a welcomed sight after a long car journey. It didn’t have the same effect now. It just made Thomas question his decision to go forward.

Chuck read. “Welcome to Silent Hill.”

It was lighter here, but not by much. Street lamps lined the streets, broke through the grey just enough that seeing what was before you was a lot easier. There were long wide streets, with closely packed buildings on either side. Standing by the entrance, he could see a white van, and a blue volkswagen parked in front of a flower shop - a topped cart was outside the main window, flowers and their beds scattered across the pavement - and a residential house - windows were boarded, mail piled on the doorstep, the welcome mat hidden under a layer of grime. It was a simple town, like any other, but one that had been destroyed.

“What happened here?” Thomas muttered.

“What do you mean? This is how its always looked,” Chuck’s eyebrows furrowed.

“But it can’t have.”

“But it has,” he shot back.

Thomas couldn’t argue with that, he supposed, although he wanted to. He sighed, rubbed his forehead and peered further down the wide stretch of road. The darkness was still pretty thick down there, but he could see the edges of something. Tall, it stretched above their heads. Thomas pointed it out.

Chuck followed his finger. “Oh, that’s the barricade.”

Thomas looked at him concerned. “Barricade? Why do you need barricades?”

“To keep them out.”

“Them, whose-” Thomas didn’t get the chance to finish, because Chuck was already dragging him forward, a new task ahead. “Where are we going?” he demanded to know instead. “This place is empty.”

But Chuck shook his head. “There are others. I’m taking you to them.”

“Will they know a way out of this place?”

“There’s only the one road. But it’s safer to travel together.”

“Yeah, you said that,” Thomas muttered, but didn’t argue. Truthfully, he could understand. In a town like this, who would want to be alone?

 

*

 

They were met at the back door to the bar - a sign that would have once lit up with neon colours read ‘Neely’s’ - by an angry looking boy. He was Thomas’ age, but so much taller, so much wider, which was only made more obvious when he folded his arms across his chest when he frowned. The sharp lines of his eyebrows were angled aggressively downwards. The immediate sight of him made Thomas want to take his chances with the town, and the hell beast outside. But Chuck seemed uncaring, just said, “Let me through, Gally.”

Gally remained in place. His eyes bore into Thomas’ skin. “Who’s he?”

Chuck turned to look at him before he answered. “He said his name’s Thomas.”

“And how did he get here?”

“There’s only one road,” Thomas bit out before he could stop himself. Gally’s glare intensified, clearly unimpressed, and it was all Thomas could do to keep the stare.

“I couldn’t leave him out there,” Chuck reminded him.

“Yes, you could of,” Gally grunted back, “Newt’s not going to be happy with the extra mouth. It’s bad enough we have you.”

Thomas was taken back but Chuck seemed unfazed. “We have the room. Besides, I’ve seen him run. Minho could have use for him.”

Gally eyed him critically. Thomas wondered exactly what that meant. He instinctively felt the need to straighten up, to make himself bigger, more intimidating. It didn’t work, judging by the amused uptick of his lips. Then Thomas realised what Chuck had said and looked down at him confused. “You saw me run? How?”

“With my eyes,” Chuck retorted automatically.

Thomas frowned. Gally chuckled.

“So, are you going to let us in?”

“Are you vouching for him?”

Thomas interjected irritated, “stop talking about me as if I’m not here,” but was ignored when Chuck answered with, “yes”.

Thomas wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but after a long moment, it made Gally lower his arms, step back and open the door wider. He gestured them inside. “Hurry up.”

Chuck went in first, received a clap on the shoulder from Gally in silent greeting, and Thomas followed with quiet uncertainty behind. The place was just like the rest of the town. Desolute. The storeroom was empty, just a few opened wooden crates in one corner, and a few shelving units on the other. The door at the other end opened up into the bar, and the stools had been haphazardly stacked against the boarded windows. Like a barricade. Thomas swallowed at what that meant.

When he stepped over the threshold, four faces turned to look at him. Automatically, he stopped in the doorway, and was elbowed forward by Gally behind him. He stumbled at the shove, and caught himself before he hit the ground.

The girl, who had short brown hair, mud marked skin and a distinct air of danger, faced off to him aggressively. “Who’s he?”

“I’m Thomas,” he quickly introduced himself. He realised that she probably didn’t mean for him to speak and quickly closed his mouth. He bit his tongue for good measure.

“Chuck’s vouching for him,” Gally informed. He slide past him, pressed in too closely so he towered and Thomas felt the instinctive need to bend to get away from him.

“Where’d you find him?” an Asian boy questioned. He had been crouched, tending to a pile of supplies on the floor, and when he stood the muscles in his arms bunched powerfully. Thomas had to look away from them.

“Outside the gates.”

The blond boy frowned unhappily. “What have I said about going out there?”

“I saw my parents,” Chuck informed, “I couldn’t just let them go.”

“If you’re by yourself, yes you do,” the blond replied firmly.

Chuck frowned, but didn’t argue. Thomas thought maybe he wanted to.

“And what was Thomas doing out there?” the last boy, another blond with his heart shorter this time, and a curious look on his face.

“Running,” Thomas informed.

“From what?” the Asian kid asked, looked at him as if he knew. Perhaps he did.

He answered honestly: “I don’t know.”

“You any good at it? Running?” The second blond questioned.

It was Chuck that answered for him. “He was going pretty fast, until he face planted into the mud.”

Thomas flushed and the first blond cracked a smile. He tilted his head towards the others, but didn’t look away from Thomas. “Think you can use him?”

The second blond and the Asian boy glanced at each other. It was silent communication, Thomas realised, the movement of eyebrows and looks in eyes being enough. He wondered how long you had to be around someone before you learnt all their tells. He wondered how long they had been there at all. Then he tried not to think about it at all, because the idea of being trapped here, of having to survive in this empty place, just terrified him.

“Yeah, I think we can,” was finally the reply given.

Thomas eyed them uncertainly. “Use me for what?”

“Supply runs,” the girl told him, her expression reluctantly and not at all pleased.

“Everyone holds their weight around here, one way or another,” the first blond said patiently, “Alby says it’s the only way that every one of us will stay sane.”

“Who’s Alby?”

“Our leader. I’m Newt, in command when Alby isn’t here. Brenda and Gally are our defense.” As if on command, Brenda shot him a toothy grin, a predator staring down its prey, and Gally flexed his muscles. “Ben, Minho, you’re going to be working with them.”

“How’d you know he’ll be any good?” Gally challenged, “I mean, no offense, but all we’ve got is Chuck’s word on it.”

“He’ll run,” Minho declared confidently. “He’ll have to.”

Thomas tried not to feel threatened.

 

*

 

Newt was the one who shoved old blankets in this direction, informed him that it was all they had in the way of beds out here. “It’s only for one night,” he assured. “We have mattress back at Woodside.”

It wasn’t as if Thomas were about to complain. Since stopping entirely, his body was lethargic, too heavy to move, and he just wanted to lie down. Close his eyes. Maybe never wake up again. That sounded like a good idea.

He laid down the sheets as best he could, a frankly unappealing mess of mix matched and old colours at any other time. Now, it looked heaven sent. He lowered himself into the bedrolls, shuffled down low, and flinched when something sharp pushed into his butt. He arched his hips, pressed a hand down and patted until he felt the raised edge of...something. It was in his back pocket, and he struggled to remember when he had put anything there. He tugged it free, settled and peered up at the square. The once white paper looked faded now, almost yellowed at the edges, and he wondered exactly how old this was. Years maybe.

He unfolded the paper, smoothed out the creases. How could he have forgotten? Teresa. Yes, she’s the one who had sent him this. He handled the note with precious care, let his fingers brushed carefully over the black ink. Teresa’s scrawl.

 

_**In my restless dreams, I see that town.** _

_**Silent Hill.** _

_**You promised that you’d take me there one day. But you never did.** _

_**Well, I’m alone there now. Waiting for you.** _

 

Minho eyed him curiously. “Who’s that from?”

“My sister,” Thomas breathed out. He refolded the letter carefully, returned it to his place. “She asked me to come here.”

“Where is she? Maybe we can find her,” Minho offered.

Thomas finally turned to look at him, smiled bitterly. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”

“She’s dead.”

He didn’t wait for a response. He just rolled over in his makeshift bed, closed his eyes and prayed that tomorrow, this would just be a dream.

 

*

 

_It was warm here. Comfortable. It had been a long time since Thomas remembered feeling like that, feeling safe, and he relished in it now. It was light too, almost white. He couldn’t see anything properly, not that he needed to know that he was laying on a mattress or that there was someone beside him._

_Light skin, dark hair, pink lips stretched into a smile. Her voice was wavering in volume, fading as if she were a distance away and then loud, right next to his ear. She hummed at first, a song that he didn’t really recognise but sought solace in - that didn’t stop him from teasing her about it._

_“What has you so happy?”_

_“Is there a reason why I shouldn’t be? We’re leaving today.”_

_Thomas nodded. Yes, leaving. Leaving here - wherever ‘here’ actually was - sounded good. “Do you know where we’re going?”_

_“No, isn’t that great?” she laughed, and he joined in._

_“We need a destination,” he reminded her._

_He heard her sigh, long suffering. “Fine, be a killjoy. Hmmm, what about...Silent Hill?”_

_“Where’s that?”_

_“Maine, it’s a holiday resort.”_

_“You want to go on holiday?”_

_“Why not? It can be the first place we go on our tour around the world.”_

_“Teresa, you’re scared of flying.”_

_“Details, details.” She laughed again. Told him how they just had to wait until dark, and her voice faded into white noise._

_ Then there was fire. _


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter **warnings at end** to avoid spoilers

 

It was Gally that woke Thomas up, with a rough shove and a teasing call of, “day one greenie, rise and shine.” He could have been gentler, he supposed, but he would admit - if only to himself - that he enjoyed the way the brunet started, shooting up and peering around, dazed, creases in his cheeks. It was only ruined when the confusion dissolved to realisation.

Gally himself missed those moments of blissful ignorance that sleep gave him. Peaceful slumber was difficult to come by these days. It had been nearly impossible since he had driven over the borders into Silent Hill a few weeks ago, or was it months? He couldn’t tell anymore. This place remained the same, in constant night. The sun didn’t seem to reach them here. Every night, he stared through gaps in boarded up windows, or through cracks in doors and watched the shadow. How could there be shadow without light? Somehow, this town managed to find a way.

Maybe it was the shadows that kept him awake. After all, it was the dark that bad things were hidden in, lurking. An unholy alliance of powers that made one of them alone unreal, undetectable, unstoppable. He stared into them as if he could catch the perpetrator there, because something, something was always there. When had the dark protected anything good?

Sometimes, like that night, they reached towards him. Tall, lithe, their fingers clawing their way towards him. But they couldn’t touch him. Here, he was protected. So they sent something to remind him that he wouldn’t always be. A foul stench, booze and horror, carried in the wind. It seeped into his skin and made it crawl. He gagged on it, shuddered and tried not to breathe.

That smell was still burnt into his nostrils when everyone stirred that morning, when they had slowly packed up and Minho had given the all clear to proceed.

Gally always took the back, would clutch his shotgun tightly in his hand and be on alert. He had a job and he would do it, he reminded himself viciously. He would not fail.

Not like -

“Can’t you move any faster?” he snapped harshly, eyes narrowed on Ben. He always hung to the back with Gally, for reasons that Gally himself didn’t really understand, but then there was a lot about Ben that he didn’t. It had been Ben that found him at the beginning of this neverending night, vouched for him and brought him into the band of survivors that had been formed.

“I just want to get out of here,” Gally had told him that night, sitting away from the others. They were war weary, broken and bruised, suspicious of him (and, as he now understood, everyone in this town. They weren’t here for good reasons, couldn’t be trusted, not safe) and he had been shaken by their very existence. He didn’t want to be one of them, not anymore, but it was already too late for that, once you’re within the town lines. They already had you.

It was Ben that smiled sadly, clapped him on his shoulder and told him, “That’s not going to happen.”

Then, he had freaked. Because he was trapped again, and he didn’t understand why. He had tried to run back the way he came - the car wouldn’t start, and Gally determinately didn’t focus on Ben’s words - but he’d just circled back. By the third lap, he had admitted defeated, dropped to his knees weak.

That’s when the voices had started. Or maybe they had always been there, but he had never noticed until he was alone and broken. If he had been left there any longer, he didn’t doubt that he would have listened to their poisonous suggestions. Most days, he wished he had.

Ben smiled casually at him and replied, “We don’t want to miss anything.”

Despite the truth in the words - because if they weren’t careful, meticulous, they could miss food, drink, medicine, weapons, none of which they could just let slip by them - it still frustrated him, and Gally’s glare darkened.

“Do it faster,” he ordered gruffly, and, in a moment of weakness, glanced behind him.

The street lights were dim, did nothing to pierce through the blackness, and Gally could feel what was hiding there with every part of him. He sniffed, and the smell went straight to his head until it ached. Gally shuddered, his grip flexing anxiously on his gun, and he turned his gaze pointedly before him.

He wanted to look back, just on the chance that he would catch a glimpse of what he knew was there, but he resisted.

The voice spat harshly, and Gally refused to recoil against the saliva cooling on his cheek.

“Gally’s right,” Brenda interjected. She didn’t glance back from her position in the lead, but the tension in the line of her shoulders was obvious to those behind her. “Something else is here.”

“Some _thing_?” Thomas repeated lubriciously, eyebrows furrowing worriedly.

Newt looked troubled, swerved around Chuck to pick up pace. “Then we speed up.”

Gally herded forward roughly, his toes pressed down hard on the back of Thomas’ shoe when he didn’t walk fast enough. The boy tripped, looked over his shoulder and huffed. Gally stared unflinching.

“What do you mean by something?” Thomas wondered. His eyes darted to Chuck and then back to the street before them. “Is it something to do with the barricades?”

Carefully constructed, they had been erected before Gally had gotten to the town himself. Beth - she was the one who seemed to have been here the longest - had said they had always been there. “Someone built them to keep something out, and I don’t want to know what it is,” she confessed, “What’s here is bad enough.”

Gally had decided not to question whether the walls were there to keep them in, rather than keep something out. He had a feeling that Beth had already considered that, and decided that the first option was far preferable. Personally, Gally wasn’t so sure.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Gally grunted.

“Now’s not the time for talk,” Minho stated, expression set and peering around him, searching. His hand curled around his steel pipe. “That can be saved until we’re back at Woodside.”

Thomas frowned, obviously unhappy with the lack of information, but he didn’t argue. Gally might have, pretty sure that he did actually, now that he thought back. Once he knew, he wished he didn’t.

Gally should have suspected with the whispers and the shadows that this wouldn’t be simple. His eyes slid towards Thomas. Whenever someone new showed up in town, something bad happened - he tried not to think about the death and destruction he had caused when he ended up here himself, but it was hard when the weight sat heavy on his chest, crushing him, and their dead eyes stared down at him accusingly.

He thought the noise was in his head. Most noises were. But then Minho was inclining his head towards the shrieking in Gally’s right ear, and Thomas was demanding to know what “the fuck is that?” and suddenly, it was all very real. Gally clicked off the safety instinctively, and hissed out the order for Thomas to be quiet.

“But what is-” he started, stopped when Chuck clapped a hand firmly over his mouth.

It sounded as if it were coming from everywhere, but Gally knew that wasn’t true. It just wanted you to think that. He heard the slice of blades through the air, knew that Brenda had withdrawn her own weapons and was waiting to attack. She was always better at tracking than he was. She’d tried to teach him, if only because he demanded it of her, but he had never gotten the hang of it. His perception was off by too much. To him, it sounded distant, under a mile was his closest guess. To her, it was upon them, because she turned quickly on her heel, to her left, and Gally followed instinctively. In all the time they had been travelling together around this god forsaken town, she had never been wrong. She wasn’t this time either.

Gally would always remember the first that he laid eyes on. He had wanted to step outside for some air, needed to collect his thoughts to fully understand that he would never be able to leave this place, but he had been stopped. Harriet told him firmly, her expression serious, that it wasn’t safe out there.

“We’re barely safe in here,” she added. She wasn’t the best at comforting, she admitted that herself with a sheepish smile, with her face splattered with blood.

“What’s out there?”

“Nothing that you want to see,” Ben assured. It should have been good enough - it wasn’t. He had snapped, shouted, could still hear the shrill curses in his mind - curses he had learnt from that person, and cringed horrified when he thought that he had used them himself - when he thought back. An aggressive backing track to the nightmare that had extended to devour his entire life.

It had been legless. It dragged itself across the floor with arms longer than its body. When it bent at the joints, what should have been elbows sharped into spikes. (Gally still bore the scars from that encounter along his forearm, from when it had thrown itself in attack). It had a face, but it was distorted. Wrong. Dark holes where eyes should have been and skin pulled back and tied so its features were pulled into a disgusting swirl in the center of its face. It had a mouth, vertical, with two rows of sharp teeth that had imbedded into Ben’s leg before Harriet had killed it. He had been grateful.

Gally himself, he’d been frozen in place, unable to fight. He wondered if now, Thomas was going to be the same.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Newt press a pistol into the greenie’s hand - Thomas held it like he always had done, fingers moving immediately to the places that it taken Gally so much time to learn - and a second later, it appeared from the darkness.

This one stood up on two legs, but had no arms. It looked as if they had been wrapped around his torso when his skin had melted and fused everything together, leaving only a lumpy mass of flesh that shouldn’t be. It’s face was half hidden, but Gally knew that on there, something mouthlike had been ripped with little else to fill the space.

“What the fuck?” Thomas whispered.

“Aim for the chest,” Gally ordered lowly. He lined up his shot.

Thomas looked at him, wide eyed and terrified, perhaps a little delirious - or felt like he should be, understandable, because a creature like that couldn’t be real. He could see those thoughts dancing past Thomas’ eyes, could read them so easily, and perhaps, he was sympathetic. But not enough. They didn’t have time for his freak out. Freaking out drew attention, it made you a weakness, it made others that were too damn good to step between you and the monster weak too. It let others die in your place. Gally refused to let that happen.

“Aim. For. The. Chest,” he repeated through gritted teeth.

And then he fired.

The first creature fell easily, two shots and it was a still form on the concrete. The shot rang in Gally’s ears, high pitched and had once been disabling for him. It had become background noise far too easily. There was always more though, drawn by the sound of the gun, and when the second reared its ugly head, Brenda was on it, her cuts sudden and deep and sprayed her with blood. Minho bashed it’s head in with his pipe just for extra measure.

The third, Newt shot for the head - took four shots, allowed it to get too close, but the bastard slumped heavy, defeated at it’s killer’s feet. Newt crushed it’s skull with a sickening push of his boots. Ben got the fourth - Gally hadn’t seen that one, it had come up behind them and it wasn’t until he saw the flash of white that he knew what was happening - shoving past Gally to jump and pierce its forehead with the blade. It went down, thumped under the weight of Ben’s body, and sticky flesh clung to the weapon longer than was safe - not with another stumbling with renewed vigour towards the unarmed blond.

Gally fumbled to reload the shotgun, but his fingers shook and his heart squeezed in his chest, because this was how it was going to end, and it would be his fault.

_Again_ , the voice mocked. _Again, again, again, again._

Again, again, Gally agreed solemnly, and one of the bullets slipped from the barrel to clatter to the floor, uselessly. His eyes darted up from the gun briefly - over a foot, but not by much. The knife was still firmly wedged, Ben’s muscles straining to get it free, he wouldn’t be fast enough, he - and then back. The shell dancing around the edge but refused to enter.

The noise when the knife was released was a squelched, sickening and wet, but it was smothered by the startled scream, Ben’s startled scream, the kind that’s taken from your throat before you could stop its release. Gally stopped breathing. When it was close enough, it had thrown itself forward, towards Ben and used its body weight to keep its next victim pinned. It wriggled and screamed and barely moved with the force behind the punches. It would be no use, not now. Again, Again, Again.

Dead. Dead. Dead.

Three gunshots, right next to Gally’s ear, were fired in quick succession. It had him recoiling on instinct, pulling his gun closer to his chest and his shoulder coming up to meet his ear, an attempt to protect himself from the noise. Before him, the creature over Ben was down, unmoving, a slumped corpse, and for a moment, Gally feared the worst. But beneath, the body squirmed, and Ben was sliding free. Gally closed his eyes for a moment. Alive. Alive. Alive.

He followed the line of the shots, and Thomas was steady in his stance. His expression was scared, lost, confused, but his hand was surprisingly steady, his gun smoking at the end of the barrel. Gally felt the rush of jealousy that he had never been able to control. Control, something he had never possessed in the first place. Not even when he was alone, he had been hopeless, the worst kind of student. Thomas wouldn’t need that kind of training. He had already succeeded. (Gally tried to put a stop to the envy that he felt for others who were better, because what good would it do? Better just meant that someone got saved. _But you always have to the hero don’t you?_ )

Ben struggled to his feet and when he finally stood, his back to the group, he swayed a little on his feet. One hand hung limply at his side, and the other clenched around the handle of the now freed machete. He stumbled forward two steps and stopped.

“You okay, Ben?” Newt wondered cautiously.

Ben didn’t answer.

Minho tried next. “Benny, you got all your parts?”

Still, no reply.

This time, Gally’s hands were steady when he carefully reloaded the gun. His heart pounded in his chest, up towards his throat, but he ignored it, eyes firmly on Ben’s form. He reloaded, the sharp click breaking through the settling silence.

Ben flinched at the sound, head dipping below the curve of his rising shoulders, and then he finally moved to face them. His expression was pained, that much was for sure, and his mouth was painted black. The creature’s blood. Gally’s eyes swept over the boy, searching for any sign of injury. He found nothing.

Later, Gally would wonder whether it had been his lack of attention to detail that had caused it. That, perhaps, if he had looked just a little bit more, if he had thought, if he had - then maybe -

_Maybes change nothing_ , the voice snarled.

He didn’t recognise them, not really, when his gaze dragged from face to face. They lingered on Gally’s features, if just for a second - or perhaps he was being stupid in his hopefulness, that his very presence might save him. before they passed over him just as easily as they did the others. Except for Thomas.

On Thomas, they stopped and hardened and then there was screaming. No one would have been able to expect the ferocity that Ben threw himself towards the brunet, so no one could move fast enough to stop him. Thomas yelped, legs buckled under the weight of the body and they crashed to the ground. The gun fell from his hands, slid away and out of his reach. Gally could see the flicker of pain that past across Thomas’ face before the fear and struggle set in.

He had never seen Ben so angry before. When he fought, he fought with careful, stern movements. The maximum damage with the minimum amount of emotion. “It’s better not to think about it,” Ben had informed him quietly once, “If you think about it, you hesitate and then you’re dead.” The muscles strained in his arms when he pressed against Thomas’ own, the forearm raised and used defensively to keep the knife from being shoved into his throat. The tendons in Ben’s neck strained, raised from the skin there in the most sickening of ways.

Minho snapped an order for him to stop, but Gally wasn’t entirely sure whether Ben could hear him. Or anything for that matter. They never seemed to be able to after -

Gally and Brenda got his arms, one edge, and dragged Ben onto the floor. He screamed, squirmed, spat, fighting against the restraint. He kicked out, caught Brenda in her side, and Newt and Minho had to step in to keep him fully pinned. Brenda demanded that he calm down, and Newt shouted that he stop. Minho stayed quiet. Gally looked at him, just for a second, and his head was bowed, shoulders hunched, lips pressed into a deep frown. He knew what was happening too.

“The monster, can’t you see it, it’s going to - fuck, let me kill it, let me - he needs to die,” Ben slurred, choked on the blood was pooling in his mouth.

Brenda didn’t stifle her curse. “Shit.”

Newt frowned sadly. He looked at Minho first, who raised his head just slightly under his friend’s gaze. They didn’t need to speak, they both knew what the other was trying to say, and Minho nodded his head jerkily.

“He’s changing,” Gally’s voice was emotionless. The eyes immediately went to him, told him what needed to be done, what he needed to do. He waited until Minho had shifted to have a hold on Ben’s arm as well before he let go, stood up with a low groan. His steps were slow, unaffected - he had perfected that kind of walk a long time ago. The shotgun was closer, but for this, he needed something smaller. The handgun Thomas had used still felt warm, freshly fired, and his fingers curled around the handle, over the trigger, too easily.

Somewhere beyond, Thomas rasped, “Changing? Into what?”

Gally walked a little faster on the way back. His mind was screaming to please stop, _just no, why you, why him, **why**_ but despite that, he knew he couldn’t not do it. Someone had to. He wouldn’t let it be anyone else. He crouched at Ben’s side and lowered the gun to press the end of the barrel to the center of his forehead. Ben went silent, eyes rolling to meet in the middle.

“No, please,” he croaked. Gally tried to tune it out.

“One of them,” Chuck whispered.

“No!”

With steady hands, Gally squeezed the trigger.

 

*

 

Sorry. He said sorry. Sorry like an apology would fix it.

It wouldn’t, because Gally was still struggling to walk. It wouldn’t because he couldn’t see out of one eye, thanks to the swelling. It wouldn’t because every time that he tried to breathe, his cracked ribs would make life so much more painful to hold onto.

Sorry wasn’t enough. They both knew that.

But Gally swallowed down the fear of nothing changing, believed the remorse was genuine and uttered words that just sounded hollow, even to him.

_“I forgive you.”_

  
  


*

 

“Where’s Ben?” was the first thing that Fry asked when they finally reached Woodside.

“Gone,” Minho answered because no one else seemed able to.

Gally didn’t stick around for the reactions, introductions or the welcoming committee meeting. Perhaps he should of, but he could still feel the blood on his hands, caked and sticky but drying, and he just needed it gone.

There were only two apartments with running water - 312 and 316. After the first time, they avoided 312 - no one wanted to face what was in there again. The bathroom door of 316 was pressed shut with a muffled click, and the facet squeaked, old and rusty, when he turned it. The sound of running water filled the room, and Gally closed his eyes, tried to focus on nothing else but the peacefulness that sound could create. He braced himself against the sides of the sink, fingers slipping across the ceramic, and hunched his shoulders forward.

They had left Ben’s body in one of the abandoned shops - he couldn’t be left on the streets, sprawled where he died, he was their friend, he deserved that much respect - covered him with a blanket that they needed but would spare for this. Minho muttered a prayer that Gally had never heard before. And then they ventured on. They couldn’t linger. He wished they could of, if only for a few minutes longer, but Gally wasn’t entirely sure whether he would have been able to leave if he had. Because Ben was his friend. The day before, he had been smiling and laughing and teasing, and now, his feet were sticking out the end of a blanket that had become his funeral shawl. And he had been the one to put him there.

Just like before, the voice muttered darkly in his ear. Gally rubbed there to silence it.

When he opened his eyes, he caught his reflection in the mirror. It was grime covered, and the image was faded, but it was enough. He looked the same. Odd. He always thought he would like different after. Each time, there was nothing. Sometimes, he was glad that it didn’t. Shame such as his should be relegated to the soul and nothing else.

The chill of the water lapped at his fingers and he forced himself to attention. He couldn’t waste water, not here. No one was sure how long it would last. He pooled enough in his hand that he could drink, first. And then he used his fill - scooped it into his hands to splash his face with, rubbed between his fingers until the red - only imaginary he knew, it was all in his head, but it still made the water pink - ran away. He rubbed his neck to clear the grime and dried sweat. And then, when he was damp and felt no cleaner than before, he watched the water swirl down the drain in a hypnotic dance that really only delayed the inevitability of having to face the rest of the group.

Gally hadn’t expected anyone to follow him. It was one of those unspoken rules here - nobody asked about the horrors that the others saw in this town. Brenda sometimes disappeared and days slipped away from her memory. Beth sometimes would stop mid sentence and stare over everyone’s shoulders at nothing. Minho sometimes smiled just a little too gleefully over the bodies of the monsters they had to put down. It just was. So when one needed time to themselves, they were granted it.

A small part of him understood that Thomas wasn’t to know that, being a newbie and all.

The rest of him didn’t care because he wasn’t ready, and looking at Thomas, all he could see was Ben’s murderous, shaking rage and the curse of “monster” that fell from his lips.

Gally stopped suddenly when he saw him in the mirror, standing there. He had been hovering at the end of the hallway, wringing his hands together nervously, and looked at Gally with sorrow and pity that wasn’t needed.

Punching it off his face was a pleasure.

Like before, Thomas yelped a surprise and fell. The floorboards creaked beneath the drop of his weight, and whined when Gally added to it. He braced himself over Thomas’ hips - _keep him pinned, he can’t escape_ \- and reared his arm back for the second punch. He felt the jaw move under his hand, the force pushing but not snapping.

“Stop!” Thomas tried to fight back, but his arms were too weak and it was all too easy to lock them and deliver another punch. It knocked Thomas’ head back, and he groaned loudly. His cheek would bruise, Gally thought gleefully.

“Please,” Thomas whimpered. His voice was a little slurred, spit, blood, it didn’t matter, and his head lifted and fell like it was too much effort to keep it up.

Gally felt a rush of power, control that twisted and latched itself onto that part of him that he could never quite escape. It made it bigger, a pulsing pain that pressed at the back of his head until it ached, grew bigger until it was all consuming.

“Please...”

A little boy, spiky hair, tiny - smaller than the other boys and almost certainly too small to fight back. He had scrambled, tried to get away, but it hurt too much. Moving, breathing, talking, thinking, so he had stopped, defeated. An encroaching shadow, the terrifying beast that plagued his life. Deep laughter, spiteful and mean, itched his ears.

_“Where you going boyo?”_

_“Please...Dad, please don’t...”_

_“That doesn’t answer the question. Where are you going?”_

_“I...”_

There was no answer that could be given that was good enough. Nothing that could make it stop. Not until it was over. That young, he had begged because that seemed like the right idea. It wasn’t. He stopped as he got older.

He took the punches, the kicks, the cuts and the burns. He took the bites, the scratches, the spit and the blood. He did it all with blank stares, no speaking unless asked a direct question - “yes dad, no dad”.

But that boy, too young to understand, too small to take what was being forced upon him, could only plead, scream and cry.

Gally came back to himself with the smell of stale liquor on his lips and he tumbled off Thomas to be sick. Sobs wracked his body, left him shaking, vulnerable, weak, could barely keep himself propped up with his hands.

_Good boy. Good boy. Good boy._

“No, no, no,” Gally choked. Behind him, he could hear Thomas scrambling to his feet. He would leave but Gally couldn’t, he had to - “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry...” a stream of apologies.

Sorry’s can’t fix it, he remembered.

He waited to hear the footsteps, for the door to open and slam shut, for someone to come save Thomas the way no one ever saved him, for him to left alone to his self disgust, but it didn’t happen. The floorboard complained when pressure was put on it, and then there was a hesitant hand on his shoulder. Gally jerked away from it, turned and pushed himself backwards, away from Thomas. Gally looked to his face, saw the damage he had done and apologised all over again.

Thomas didn’t say anything - or maybe he did, but Gally couldn’t hear him, not over his own heartbeat - but when Thomas placed himself carefully beside him, not touching but close enough that Gally could feel his presence burning, he didn’t recoil. He just looked at him through tear blurred vision and wondered why.

Thomas caught his gaze and his lips quirked upwards in what was supposed to be a reassuring smile.

It didn’t work. Nothing was reassuring, not when his skin was still crawling from a phantom touch, not when his knuckles were bleeding from the assault he had started, not when the voice was louder and hissing words that would never be soothing again.

“Why...” he tried to ask but he couldn’t get the words out.

“Because no one should cry alone,” Thomas answered thickly.

He offered his hand, letting Gally make the first move. He hesitated, didn’t want to, not after what he had done, but he was weak - _weak, weak, weak_ \- and he clutched to the limb like it was his only lifeline. Thomas’ fingers curled around his, squeezing in what screamed like silent forgiveness. He didn’t deserve it, but god, he wanted it. Gally bowed his head towards their hands, closed his eyes and wept.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **warnings** : character death, violence, gore and child abuse.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Thomas helped Gally clean up before they ventured back to the others. Gally hadn’t said a word since, lips pressed firmly together, the edges angled downwards and his eyebrows furrowed. Thomas would look at him from the corner of his eye - swollen, he knew already - and noticed when he stopped to clutch his shaking hands, or to stare at the cuts on his knuckles, and wanted to ask so many questions.

Teresa’s voice in his head scolded him for prying, and he resisted. He had a feeling it was a story that he didn’t want to hear, anyway.

“You should get those looked at,” he said instead.

Gally jerked suddenly, hands dropping heavily to the floor in a closed fist. He didn’t look in Thomas’ direction, but he laughed bitterly. “You should get your face looked at.” He stopped, shuddered a little. “Jeff is the best we’ve got for a doctor.”

Thomas touched his eye, his cheekbones, flinching at the pain that flared when he brushed the split skin. Bruised, most likely. Broken, probably. He noticed Gally watching him and tried to school his expression- he didn’t want to make it any worse than it already was. “I will if you will.”

“This isn’t a deal to be brokered,” Gally snapped, frustrated. His eyes hovered over Thomas’ injuries and then flickered away again. “That’ll get infected. It needs to be cleaned and stitched up, bandaged at least.”

“How do you know that?”

“Common sense,” Gally snapped back, defensive and closed off.

Thomas muttered an apology automatically and Gally sighed. “No, no, don’t be sorry. I’m...you have no reason to be...sorry,” he finally said, defeated.

The boy’s head was angled downwards, so he didn’t see when Thomas approached him and held out his hand. He kicked out, tapped the side of Gally’s leg and then waved his hand in a grand gesture. Eyes narrowing on it, Gally’s face held suspicion, distrust.

“It doesn’t bite,” Thomas attempted to tease, but by Gally’s reaction, it fell flat.

“What do you want from me?” Gally demanded instead, voice hard. He lifted his head to meet Thomas’ eyes, unwavering, expressionless. It made Thomas feel cold all over. His hand shook slightly.

“For you to stand up.”

His jaw tightened.

“Nothing,” Thomas quickly assured.

Gally shook his head. “No one wants nothing. Especially not after...”

“I have it on great authority that guys like scars. Really, you’ve done me a favour,” he joked, smiled as much as he could despite the way it pulled and ached.

Gally snorted. It wasn’t amused, like Thomas had hoped, but it wasn’t disbelieving either, so he took it as a partial success.

He sighed, long and overdramatic. “Just take my hand.”

There was a long pause, more uncertain looks that Thomas refused to back down from. And then the hand was placed in his, carefully, sprung to snap back if reconsidered as a threat. Thomas held on.

 

*

 

Jeff whistled loudly. “Damn, Gally did some work on that face of yours.”

“I never said it was Gally,” Thomas denied automatically. He had decided not to answer questions about the state of his face, because truthfully, he didn’t know what would happen if he tolf. It wasn’t as if he expected Gally to lash out violently - the look on his face after, when he was sitting there, shaking, muttering apologies, he didn’t think it was likely to happen again - but he didn’t know how things worked here. He remembered reading Lord of the Flies in a time that seemed long past, and that harming others was against the rules, punishable by banishment. Thomas didn’t want that to happen, not because of him. Not after today with Ben - the thought of the recently deceased made Thomas’ palms a little sweaty and his throat close up painfully. There were many things he could have gone throughout his whole life without seeing, and that execution was it.

He couldn’t understand what had happened, was too afraid to ask really, the wound too fresh for him to want to go messing with it, but he knew that, in some way, he had a part in it. That thought didn’t sit well with him.

The look Jeff sent back was unimpressed. “Uh-huh.” He didn’t say anymore on it though, which Thomas was grateful for. He was rough with his touches, untrained, but what else was to be expected from the boy who was given his medical profession because there was no one else willing to take the job? Thomas tried not to wince too much when a particularly delicate place was touched, or flinch away when his head was tilted up and all the blood rushed uncomfortably there. He did breathe a little easier when Jeff finally released him, though.

“You’ll be fine. The bone isn’t broken, and the bruises will heal eventually - should have some cream to help. The cut though, it’ll need stitches,” he informed, already reaching for the makeshift medical bag - it was a woman’s handbag, flowery with broken leather straps, and Thomas refrained from thinking about what had happened to its original owner - and pulling out what looked like dental floss and a needle.

Thomas eyed it in a mix of caution and disbelief. “Are you serious?”

“Hey man, this isn’t exactly a hospital,” Jeff defended himself. “It’s all we’ve got. So unless you want it to get infected, then let me do my job.”

He grimaced, but nodded acceptingly and leant forward, and bit into his lip to stop from yelping at the pain when the cold needle first pierced the skin.

 

*

 

Cheek sore to the point that he was a little afraid to talk, Thomas held up the bandage as a silent offering. He had gotten it from Jeff after he had been sewn up, the boy wishing him luck and informing him that “Gal doesn’t like people fussing over him”, but Thomas was stubborn, had insisted, and now, even with Gally attempting to stare him down, he refused to give up.

It took a few moments for Gally to nod with begrudging acceptance, and shuffle to the left to free enough space for a second body to perch there. Thomas turned and settled, angled his knees so they bumped against Gally’s - who returned the touch before he took away all contact entirely - and when Gally flung his hand towards him, eyes averted, Thomas held it in his own delicately.

He set the bandage in his lap and lifted the whiskey damp cloth to press to the skin there. Gally’s face contorted into a wince, muscles tensed but he didn’t move away, remained silent in his pain. What would lead you to do that? Thomas thought, and was lighter with his touch.

He continued to work in silence, delicate in the way he encircled the hand. Fingers touched as lightly as they could to straighten out the fabric when it twisted, and he tried his hardest to will off the blush at the feeling of eyes burning into the back of his bowed head.

“Why are you being so kind to me?” Gally blurted out roughly. It was said a little too loudly- it made Thomas jump and drew curious eyes from the rest of the room. He slouched in his seat, frowned unhappily, and continued at a lower volume, “I nearly caved your face in.”

“Well, that’s a bit overdramatic,” Thomas commented.

Gally’s chest rumbled with displeasure, and he sighed before replying with honesty.

“You’d just lost your friend. I just had to...” he trailed off. He figured, of all people, he didn’t have to remind Gally what had happened.

“That’s not an excuse,” Gally argued.

“It’s not,” Thomas agreed, “But I’m going to take it as such.”

Still, Gally frowned. “You’re too forgiving.”

“Your actions were caused by grief. I did far worse after my sister left.”

“Died, you mean?”

Thomas thought of the body he had buried, and the letter that was currently burning a hole in his pocket. Died, did he really mean that? Sometimes, he wondered. “Yes,” he finally answered, strained a smile.

“I’m sorry,” Gally muttered lowly, and his eyebrows pulled together as if he were unhappy with the words. Thomas ignored that.

“Just accept that I don’t care about what you did,” he said, maybe a little harshly, “Okay?”

Gally was silent for a long time before he sighed, “I suppose you’ll have to. It’s not as if we can leave.”

Thomas’ hands stilled. “What do you mean ‘we can’t leave’?” he questioned. His heart pounded uncomfortably in his chest, something too heavy with knowing to be comfortable. It was familiar, those words, that promise, and he didn’t like what that meant.

Gally met his gaze, and he looked uncomfortable. “Chuck didn’t tell you? I thought that was why he brought you here.”

“No,” he swallowed, “He didn’t.”

Gally flicked his attention to the rest of the room, and back again. “I...I’m not really sure on the details. Minho has this whole elaborate story that he tells everyone when they ask. He’s been here longer than anyone else, I think.”

Thomas looked to Minho. He sat in the throng of the group, spoke with Harriet, laughed with Winston, complimented Frypan on the broth he had put together. He was all subdued smiles and jokes, and Thomas wondered how that could be if he had truly spent so much time in this place.

“There has to be a way out of here,” Thomas insisted. He didn’t want to believe otherwise but he could already feel like it was in vain.

Gally frowned at him, and slowly retracted his hand from Thomas’ hold. He jolted at the loss, hadn’t even realised that he had still been holding on, and felt his fingers twitch around nothing, missing what warmth had once been there. Gally stood up, towered over Thomas’ form, intimidating in a way that he hadn’t been before and it made Thomas frown. His face was set for a moment before he smirked, the same shroud back into place as if nothing had happened.

He shrugged with one arm. “I don’t know what to tell you, greenie. Believe it, don’t believe it. Doesn’t really matter, does it? We’re here. You have to deal with it.”

And then he walked away, leaving Thomas a little confused and lost behind him. He followed Gally’s steps with a frown, but decided not to dwell on the strange feeling that it left behind, let his eyes catch Minho;s for a second. The boy looked back, arched an eyebrow at him. Thomas blinked once, dropped his gaze and thought about how he would insert himself into that mix to gather information. They were so familiar with each other - he wondered how long they had been there all together, how many had died like Ben because they were too calm, too collected, too expectant for it not to be a usual occurrence - and he was the outsider.

It was a feeling he knew well and god, he hated it.

But he didn’t have to think too long on it, because it was Minho that approached him. Thomas caught the figure’s movement out of the corner of his eye, glanced up and watched the leisurely approach. How he could be so put together after his friend’s death, Thomas couldn’t understand, but he wasn’t about to ask. Like with Gally, it didn’t seem right.

“You want to leave,” Minho commented as soon as he got close enough, grunting a little as he dropped into the freed space.

Thomas didn’t bother asking him how he knew. “Doesn’t everybody?”

Minho snorted. “Yeah, I suppose.”

“Apparently, you’re the one to talk to about why we can’t go,” Thomas mused.

Somewhere beyond, Zart snorted. “Don’t get him started on that bullshit.”

Instead of insisting the truth, Minho just grinned and replied, “Could still be true.”

Zart waved it off with a laugh, and Thomas asked, “Tell me.”

Minho eyed him for a moment before humming agreement. “Alright. The reason no one can leave is because Silent Hill is cursed.”

“Cursed?” Thomas repeated slowly.

“Yup.”

“By what?”

“A demon child.”

“Right.”

Minho’s grin was sly, and he leant closer to make a conspiratorial whisper in Thomas’ ear. “See, the town was built on spiritual ground, supposed to be a place for worship, but as it grew and the wonders became more well known, it was expanded into a lakeside resort. But the religious sect stayed, grew, bred.”

“How overdramatic,” Thomas commented dryly.

Minho shushed him - “it adds to the story, dude,” - and continued, “So they believe the town is protected by the old gods, that sacrifice is key to keeping said gods happy, blah blah blah, and then this child is suddenly born. Out of wedlock, shock horror, no father to be seen. So they start to worry. They’ve heard stories about demons in bastard children and thought ‘hey, maybe she’s the one’. Couldn’t take the risk. So they cleansed her.”

Thomas shivered at the words. “Cleansed her?”

“Yeah,” this time, Minho grimaced. “Horrible affair. Real dark, never ending suffering. All kinds of fucked up. But see, they were right. She was the one. The demon, the one that could destroy their land. Except, what they did, it didn’t work. It just made her angry. She cursed the town, punished its people for what they did to her. Turned them into monsters.”

“Sounds like they deserved it,” Thomas mused.

“Probably,” Minho agreed.

“So what happened to her? The girl?”

“I was told that she was still in the hospital. Somewhere in the basement where they could hide their secret. Not that it matters. She seems to enjoy making sure everyone knows.”

Thomas noted the choice of words. “Do you really believe in curses?”

Minho shrugged, but he seemed a touch more serious now, if just for the moment. “You’ve got to believe in something.”

“That’s what my sister used to say,” Thomas muttered.

“Guess your sister had a great mind too,” Minho winked, and succeeded in making Thomas laugh just a little.

“Yeah, she liked to think so,” he agreed affectionately. Clearing his throat, he clapped Minho on the shoulder, “You’re a good storyteller.”

“I’m a great storyteller,” Minho corrected, but he nudged their arms together.

Only a few moments later, Winston approached them, lips pressed together into a low frown and broke their moment when he asked, “Have you seen Chuck?”

Thomas sat up a little straighter, suddenly worried. He tried to think back to the last time he had seen the boy - when they had first gotten back, and he had been lead into the crowd of people he had yet to be introduced to, just before he had gone looking for Gally. That could have been hours ago. He had no idea how much time had passed. “He isn’t here?”

“He was supposed to help with kitchen clean up, but he never showed,” Winston answered, and then his eyes drifted to Minho knowingly.

Beside him, Minho sighed, pushed himself onto his feet. “He’s gone out again, hasn’t he?”

“Probably,” Winston agreed reluctantly.

Thomas remembered something that Newt had mentioned before, and stood up sharply. “He does this a lot?”

“Every day,” Minho confirmed, and Winston added, “Usually, someone can catch him before he gets out the door, but he’s gotten better at sneaking out.”

“Who would want to go out there by themselves willingly?” Thomas had to ask. The fog and the monsters that had within it had terrified him, blanketed everything in this feeling of wrongness. The apartments felt the same actually, he would admit, but surrounded by these people, the warm voices, he could forget that. The thought of Chuck out there alone churned his stomach.

“He thinks he sees his parents, and then goes looking for them,” Winston informed him.

“He was looking for them when he found me,” Thomas realised, and then added, “Wait, thinks? Meaning that he doesn’t?”  He thought of the graveyard, of the names he couldn’t read, “Are they...”

“Dead? It’s not unlikely,” Minho shrugged.

“But he sees them,” Thomas argued.

“People see a lot of shit here,” Minho snapped back, before turning his attention to Winston again. “Tell Newt. We’ve got to find him.”

Thomas waited until the boy had left with a sharp nod at the command, before asking, “This town is huge. Where would be go?”

“He always ends up at the same place: the lake.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> I have tumblr: [jeffvrson](http://gladers.co.vu)


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